Neither Time Nor Distance
by Aly Teima
Summary: First in a double arc story line, 'Soul mates'. Prologue here, what happens when universes collides? Can one dimension affect another and stop something terrible from happening? Sherlock will go to to the ends of the earth and beyond trying.


Neither Time Nor Distance

…can rend asunder…..

AN; This is the first part of my Soul mates series. The story will follow two separate arcs, eventually meeting at the end of this particular branch. I love combining the two Sherlock universes and it's been done so well by many authors I've read, I thought I'd try my hand at it

Disclaimer; Neither ACD's wonderful work nor BBC Sherlock belongs to me. I am just a humble history teacher who has re-found her passion. Thank you, thank you, thank you so much. (Oh, and I'm not making any money from this either ;-))

"_What is a friend? One soul in two bodies"_

London's fog was exceeding its reputation for density. The streetlamps could barely cut through the murk.

Then, to top it all off, it started to rain. Great sheets came down and thunder rumbled in the distance. The sounds of London subdued was an interesting one, though carriages still splashed by and the shops still sold their wares.

Factories in the distance still bellowed out black smoke and tired workers began returning home. London, the center of the world, moved like a living thing. Glory Britannia.

Dr. John H. Watson smiled a little to himself at his own foolishness. Truly, nationalism was not something he was willing to completely immerse himself in.

It was already becoming a curse among fellow European nations and their ridiculous flag-waving.

He leaned a bit more into his cane. Weather like this almost always played up his old wound, though Mrs. Hudson's remedies and Holmes' 'treatments' *Yea gods* usually helped.

He hoped that Holmes wouldn't get a case, not something he usually hoped for since he craved the excitement the way he used to crave a roll of the die and the counting of the cards. The substitution had saved him from a much worse fate than that he had at 221b Baker Street.

Still, he didn't really want to become unnecessarily drenched and exhausted if the night didn't call for it.

Of course, since it was a dark and stormy night, fate practically _assigned_ the detective and his doctor a case.

John's moustache twitched in amusement. He leaned into the doorframe now, staring out into damp and bedraggled Baker Street.

He could slightly smell fresh bread coming from the shop to his left. The lamps, the rain and the familiarity of this place were like a balm to him and had been since losing his beloved Mary nearly a year before.

There was nowhere else he would rather be, despite (or perhaps because of) the maniac upstairs sawing away at his violin.

He gently moved to shut the door before he felt the resistance. A gloved hand was on the outside doorknob.

Watson started, he hadn't even seen the fellow approach. Surely it wasn't _that_ dark *or you weren't _that_ distracted. Too long since the military days, I suppose.*

The man was tall, quite tall and his clothes…

Even the glove, the clearest part Watson could see in the dim entrance, leather yes, but the style and fashioning of them.

John realized he was being rude, despite the man's, oddities.

"May I help you? Are you here to see Sherlock Holmes? He's up…"

The man entered but held up a hand. Though he was young, John would estimate he and even Holmes had a solid decade or more on the stranger, the air of confidence and sheer intensity filled up the hallway.

His features were, chiseled and very, very pale. He wore his hair long, longer than any man, besides those Watson had seen abroad, had seen. It was dark and unruly, despite the rain.

And the eyes, slanted and palest ice.

Those eyes were staring at him with blazing focus. His expression could have been carved in stone, except….

John Watson knew about grief, and the way this young man was staring at him went beyond familiarity (which Watson eerily felt himself). The eyes were… _He_ was grieving. Sad. Terribly so.

"I say, are you quite all right sir?" Watson asked softly. He discreetly observed the taller man (expensive coat and fine scarf but yea gods, where was his hat? And in this weather?) And what on earth was the style he was wearing? John had never encountered it.

The young man gave a funny half smile, only one side of his lips quirked up. He took a small step towards the doctor, then stepped back.

"I didn't think you would be quite so, spot on." He murmured, his eyes never leaving John's face. The voice was deep, surprisingly deep for a younger man. And it was, familiar.

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's nothing, Jo-, Dr. Watson." Watson started at that. He'd corrected himself true, but to use a man's Christian name upon first meeting him!

The doctor wasn't surprised that the man knew his identity, if he was here he must know who Holmes was, even his faithful sidekick's name.

"I think you're a bit taller here, in this place, though that wouldn't take a great deal."

Watson was mystified by the man's utter, _oddness_. Yet, he felt no threat, no concern, just the opposite actually. How very strange.

"Have you, been here before? Been treated at St. Bartholomew's perhaps? " He was too young to have been in Watson's military days.

The face was also too young to be care worn yet at those words it looked exactly that.

He finally glanced away, lips pursed together and eyebrows knitted. "I missed…"

Watson gently placed a hand on his arm and the man reacted as though he'd been electrocuted. He jumped back, face twisted.

"Sir! I sincerely apologize, truly, if there is some distress you are in, you…" John stopped suddenly. "Well, you have come to the right place."

"I know." The other said simply. "And yes, there is a long story to all of this and it is extremely important, more than…." He paused here, swallowed painfully.

"More than you know, doctor."

He stood up a little straighter and a strange light came into his eyes.

"You and your companion need to stop pursuing Lord Blackwood and focus on the true enemy here."

Watson gaped at him.

"But, Blackwood is a sadist! Immoral to the extreme, Holmes and I _must_"

"He will continue to be a sadist and immoral regardless of if you are pursuing him or not, let Lestrade handle this in the meantime. You know where the real danger lies."

"You mean, the Professor?"

The young man's eyes turned steely. "He is no more of a professor than you are a sidekick, doctor."

Now it was Watson's turn to jump back suddenly. Only one other man he knew could read his thoughts that way.

"And it is more than that. You trust me and you don't know why. Why should you trust me, of all people?" The tall man seemed to smile at his own personal joke.

"I-"

"You had your tea hours before and you had Earl Grey, not your personal favorite but it will do in a pinch. You were planning on venturing out to retrieve more tea, perhaps other edible items but the rain stopped your mission. Your flat mate never assists in these domestic endeavors so you were feeling slightly put out but the enjoyment of the city, _our_ city doctor, took your mind off of any fleeting annoyance."

"You dress conservatively because that is your nature. You became a doctor to help those with no voice and no means and that is why you are not wealthy or more prestigious even though your skills could have easily kept you forever in the services of some great Duke of sorts. You recently lost someone, though not too recently since your sleeping patterns have begun to evolve back to your bachelor state."

Again, the small smile at the word bachelor. Watson was utterly without words. And the man wasn't finished yet.

"You prefer Beethoven to Bach when the violin is, ahem, screeching at you. You are skilled at cards and darts but stay away from both due to a tendency to gamble." A tilt of the dark head. "Interesting, that is actually original, or not."

He seemed a bit puzzled then pressed on.

"You enjoy writing up the exploits of the man currently in the room above us. You were invalided in Afghanistan but received full honors for your bravery. You are a loyal companion, a masterful, nearly perfect shot, you have a dog yet you also tolerate cats. The ink on your fingers state you have recently been reading fresh print, most probably a newspaper due to this time period. You are well rested but the terrifying noises above show that this is due to no cases and your flat mate is feeling the strain. No, he is, bored, yes?"

He didn't wait for an answer.

"You received your fair hair from your father's side of the family, the eye color from your mother's and the height issue is, I'm sorry to tell you, a dominant gene throughout your family tree. You have a craving for adrenalin, a sister who indulges too much in, brandy I believe, possibly due to her conflicted feelings which will take nearly a century to be accepted, again I am sorry to tell you. You are a good man and a true friend and possibly the best person I have ever known and that, Doctor John Hamish Watson, is why I am here."

John Watson pinched himself viciously because this had to be a dream. There was no other explanation.

A deep sigh. "Wrong John, it is _one_ explanation out of many. When the impossible is ruled out, don't you remember?"

"Who….what in…."

"No time for stuttering. I truly do need to see and speak with your companion, and yourself. And I'm nearly out of time, the rain will be stopping soon."

He took John's limp hand and squeezed it affectionately. "The name, since you so kindly asked, is Sherlock Holmes."


End file.
